


Of Dark and Bright

by Argosy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Author's Favorite, F/M, Marauders' Era, Pseudo-Incest, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argosy/pseuds/Argosy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen-year-old Sirius badly wants his cousin Narcissa.  He gets her sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Dark and Bright

"KREACHER!"

 _Crack!_ The wizened old house-elf Apparated into the drawing room at number twelve Grimmauld Place. He wore an obsequious grin along with his rag-like loincloth, and managed somehow to look both cowed and sly.

"Mistress is calling me?" he croaked, bowing low.

"Mistress has been calling you for hours, you worm-ridden half-wit," Sirius's mother snarled. "Is the room ready yet?"

"Miss Narcissa's bedroom is being beautiful, kind mistress."

He bowed even lower, his hunchback causing him to teeter precariously. Sirius looked up from the corner where he was vainly trying to pass the time with a book. Kreacher falling over had to be more entertaining than _Profiles in Darkness._

Sadly, Kreacher managed to regain his balance. Sirius sighed. He was desperately bored. And with summer holidays just begun, the only thing he had to look forward to was the prospect of more time spent with the Black family.

If only he'd been allowed to spend the summer elsewhere. He was sixteen. Nearly seventeen. It was utterly unfair he should be forced to live like a prisoner in his dreary family home. Regulus, who was _younger,_ mind you, had been permitted to escape.

He'd brought up that point with his mother, hoping to somehow make her see reason. "Darling Reggie," she'd said, "is doing an Honors program at Durmstrang." The pride in her voice did not temper the look in her eyes that clearly stated which brother's company she would have preferred. "Happily, we still have the benefit of your society."

So here he was. Stuck. When James, or Moony, or any of a dozen friends would have taken him in. The problem, of course, was that his family didn't approve of his choice of summer companions. The few with the precious blood required of would-be entertainers of the Blacks' black sheep were deemed unsuitable for social reasons.

"We'll see about that, shall we?" His mother's voice shrilled at the elf, interrupting his thoughts. Grabbing hold of one of Kreacher's bat ears, she strode purposefully from the room, dragging the house-elf behind her. Sirius could hear his little _oh, oh, ohs_ of pain getting softer as they moved down the hall.

Now his cousin Narcissa, who, at twenty, was apparently too stupid to be on her own while her parents toured Eastern Europe for the summer, was coming to stay. Sirius felt a flutter in his stomach and tamped it relentlessly down. He was relieved that something was finally breaking the monotony of his holiday existence, he told himself. He was not remembering the way Narcissa's long blonde hair had looked the last time he'd seen her, at Hogwarts, when she was a graduating seventh year, and he was still in third.

"This is unacceptable, you miserable excuse for a magical being." Sirius could hear his mother's angry voice all the way from the guest room at the end of the hall. "Do it again. Top to bottom."

"It is being Kreacher's pleasure, mistress," came the cringing tones of the elf.

"Now, Kreacher."

"Kreacher will be scrubbing the room until his fingers bleed."

" _Now,_ Kreacher."

Sirius felt the familiar tingle of magic in the air the moment before he heard the _crack_ of Apparation. The next moment, Narcissa Black stood before him in the drawing room, blinking in confusion.

His throat went suddenly dry. He should greet her, he knew, should say _something,_ but the words wouldn't seem to come. For her part, Narcissa looked vaguely about the room as if unsure how she'd come to be there.

She was directly in front of him, but Sirius had trouble seeing her somehow. She was too bright; he felt blinded.

He had an impression of yellow hair, and pale skin. His brain stubbornly refused to make sense of the rest. Feeling a sudden need for air, he realized he'd forgotten to breathe.

"Narcissa, darling," his mother swept in, called by the sound of Apparation, "how lovely you look."

A shy smile spread over Narcissa's features. His mother took her hands. "We're so happy to have you, dear." She glanced at Sirius. "We were getting rather dull amongst ourselves." Smiling a genuine smile at the girl, she practically cooed, "I can't tell you how pleased I am to have you for a nice long --"

_CRACK!_

Mrs. Black started, glancing around the room reflexively. Sirius reluctantly dragged his eyes away from where they were still refusing to make sense of Narcissa.

And there stood another of Sirius's cousins, Narcissa's sister Bellatrix, in the far corner of the room, taking in her surroundings with a look of naked curiosity.

Bellatrix was the oldest sister, the one Sirius knew least well. He'd spoken to her perhaps twice in his life, and seen her only a few times more. She stood unnaturally still, all darkness where Narcissa was light. He could look at her, could take in her black hair and fine features, so like Narcissa, and yet not.

The smile drained from his mother's face. She looked at the other girl with undisguised distaste for a moment before the mask fell back into place. "Bellatrix. We weren't expecting you."

"Hello, Aunt Walburga," replied the girl, glancing around the room with bright, sharp eyes. "Hello, little Gryffindor cousin," she added when those eyes fell on him. "I'll be staying too."

 

* * *

 

"We expect one sister and we get two. I call that a fine bargain." Sirius's father smiled benevolently at the two girls across the dining room table.

Of the very many things Sirius hated about Grimmauld Place, he hated these mandatory family dinners the most. Every evening he was required to don dress robes and sit stiffly in the formal dining room eating off fancy bone china that was very likely made of real bones -- the bones of Black family enemies, knowing his father. He would have much preferred to take his meals in the downstairs kitchen, as far away from his family as possible.

"I go where Cissy goes. She needs looking after." Bellatrix's voice and face were pleasant, and didn't quite match the look in her eyes.

"Yes. Very commendable," harrumphed Mr. Black, disconcerted. Mrs. Black smiled a brittle smile.

There was something about Bellatrix that seemed to unsettle his parents. Sirius would have considered that a point in her favor, if he hadn't felt that same indefinable something unsettling _him._ He couldn't put his finger on it. She was rather pretty, and seemed pleasant enough, but she held your gaze a little too long, and it was hard to look away. She kept her body a little too still, then would move quickly and smoothly, like a serpent. For all her silkiness, there was somehow still a sharpness about her and a brilliance, in her eyes and in the lines of her body. She was like silver knives, Sirius mused, you felt you would get cut if you got too close.

She adored Narcissa, that was obvious in the fiercely protective way she would look at her younger sister, and the way she kept a hand on her at all times. She was always touching her lightly somewhere -- her shoulder, her cheek, the back of her hand. Even now she twisted a lock of Narcissa's fine blonde hair around one of her fingers.

Sirius had once touched that hair. Or rather, that hair had once touched him. He felt a _frisson_ go through him at the memory. He gritted his teeth, annoyed with himself, and forced himself to look away from Narcissa's yellow hair, from where it twined round Bellatrix's finger, glinting in the candlelight. Glancing around the table, he was relieved to see his parents had not noticed him staring -- not that they ever noticed anything about him -- and then he met Bellatrix's eyes.

He felt caught in a snare, powerless to look away until she allowed it. She watched him knowingly, something almost like pity in her glance, before she slowly smiled. Her teeth were bright and sharp.

"I was so pleased when my brother asked us to take you, Narcissa, dear," his mother was saying. "We do so always enjoy --"

"It was Mummy's idea," Bellatrix broke in. Sirius felt himself released. "She thinks Cissy is more likely to meet an eligible pure-blood wizard if she stays in London over the summer." She laughed, a pretty sound like silver bells. "Mummy's rather given up on me, I'm afraid."

His mother seemed at a loss for words, such an unusual occurrence that Sirius had to smile. Narcissa, who was staring vaguely in his direction, smiled back. Her smile was very different from her sister's. It seemed to Sirius to be lighter, filled with an innocence that was completely foreign to most members of the Black family. He felt the flutter in his stomach again. Then Bellatrix touched her sister's hand and smiled at him as well. The flutter changed; Sirius felt it harden into something like a cold lump.

 

* * *

 

Sirius lay in his bed watching the moonlight filter through the ragged branches outside his window. His room was on an upper story, distant from his parents, who had separate bedrooms on the second floor. Narcissa had been given a room adjoining his mother's. Bellatrix was somewhere up here with him.

A thought ghosted through his mind -- a fleeting wish that it had been the other sister who was given a room on his floor. Sirius clenched his fists, and turned over restlessly, firmly rejecting the thought. His traitorous mind refused to let it go, however, picking at it like a half-healed scab.

While it was true that in pure-blood families distant relations sometimes married -- his own parents were second cousins -- anything closer was definitely not on. Sirius knew the difference between first and second cousins was enormous, the bloodlines vastly separated, the distance far greater than the mere words made it seem. He knew that in Wizarding society it was forbidden to touch a first cousin, hardly better than touching a sister. The thought made him shudder.

But as he finally drifted to sleep, his thoughts overflowed with visions of long blonde hair.

 

* * *

 

_He was thirteen years old. A cocky third year at Hogwarts who was sure he knew more than most of his professors. He resented being forced to revise, when it should have been clear to anyone with the intelligence of a Flobberworm that his gift was natural. Forced study could only upset the delicate balance between instinct and intellect that made magic come so effortlessly to him._

_When he'd explained this theory to James, the git had laughed at him and said he was only looking for a way to avoid studying. Best not try that one on any professors, he'd advised._

_So here he was in the nearly empty library, wasting time that could have been put to perfectly good use in a pick-up game of Quidditch, or thinking up new ways to torment Snivellus, studying for the end of term Potions exam. What were the five ingredients common to all memory-enhancing potions? Did he look like someone who cared?_

_He felt a shift in the air beside him. The sweet smell of vanilla and honey made his stomach flip. A posh hair-potion, he knew, and he knew who used it. He forced himself to stay cool, to take his time in looking up, and to make sure a confident smirk was on his face when he finally did._

_And there she was, standing beside him -- his cousin Narcissa. She'd only spoken to him a handful of times during his three years at Hogwarts. She was four years older, and had a vastly different crowd. But he'd seen her often. He'd watched her at the Slytherin table across the Great Hall and he'd passed her sometimes in the halls or on the stairs. In his more honest moments, he'd admit to himself that he had no reason to hang about outside upper year classrooms, waiting for them to let out, he was only hoping to catch a glimpse of her as she left, always surrounded by crowds of giggling Slytherin girls. He wasn't the only one who watched her, he'd noticed. White-hot jealousy flared in his stomach at the way boys of all houses, and all years, stared as she passed._

_She never spoke to him as she walked by him in the halls, but she always spared him, and only him, a smile. It was the pure smile of a child; even his thirteen-year-old self could recognize that, it made her look younger than her seventeen years. Narcissa's smile expressed only joy, kindness, innocence -- unlike the other Slytherins, whose smiles could be sly or conniving and could express much more than happiness. Narcissa's smiling face had a purity that Sirius had never seen elsewhere, certainly never in members of his own family._

_She wasn't like the rest of the Blacks, he was sure of it. True, she had been sorted into Slytherin, and Sirius wasn't naïve enough to think that she remained untainted by living with her parents, who were nearly as fanatically obsessed with blood as his own, but she remained above it all somehow. She was an innocent; there was no other way to express it. He would give anything to be able to keep her that way, untouched by the Blacks' poison. But he was only thirteen._

_She smiled down at him now, and he felt his own smirk dissolve into an answering grin._

_"Sirius," she said and her voice was like a warm breeze, "I may not get a chance to say good-bye later."_

_"Good-bye?" he managed finally, annoyed to hear his voice come out like a squeak._

_She nodded. "The school year ends soon."_

_"Oh... Good-bye," he answered, not knowing what else to say, then immediately regretted it. Now she'd leave._

_She didn't, though. Instead she watched him thoughtfully. "I should have some advice for you. Study hard, I suppose. Make the family proud."_

_She leaned over his shoulder to get a look at the book he was reading. And that's when it happened. Something Sirius would remember for the rest of his life, and replay often in his mind, until he grew ashamed._

_She was behind him, and as she leaned over, the vanilla scent grew stronger, and her long blonde hair fell past his face shining like a curtain of gold. It touched his bare arm where it rested against his book and Sirius felt his breath catch in his throat. Narcissa's hair was soft and whisper-light and tickled his skin. His forearm burned where the yellow hair touched it, and he felt himself growing hard under the table. He had the sudden need to pull away, and the overwhelming desire to get even closer, and he knew he would embarrass himself in a moment, do or say something unbearably awkward._

_Then Narcissa stepped back, wrinkling her nose prettily. "Potions." She made a little moue of disgust and laughed. "Well, cousin, it seems I have no advice for you after all. Good-bye, then."_

_He watched her as she walked away. He sat in the library for more than an hour, but didn't study._

 

* * *

 

That had been the last time he'd spoken to Narcissa, three years now. And as the time passed, he'd thought about her less and less. He hardly thought about her at all, nowadays, only sometimes waking up in his bed at Hogwarts in a cold sweat, the color yellow running through his dreams, and his arm burning where it had been touched by hair that was like sunlight.

 

* * *

 

His parents had gone out early. It was Wednesday, their day to pay a round of calls upon their circle of acceptably-blooded acquaintances. By mutual agreement, Sirius was always excluded from these visits, but his mother had hoped to take Narcissa along this time. She wanted to show off her pretty niece.

Narcissa was like malleable clay, willing to follow almost any suggestion, but Bellatrix had looked straight at his mother and said, "We won't be going, Aunt Walburga," and that was the end of that.

Sometime during the morning a summer storm had gathered force. The rain now splattered against the drawing room windows, streaking the panes, ringing against the glass like angry bells.

Sirius had ensconced himself in a high back armchair and was trying to derive some entertainment from the life story of the great Dark wizard, Ruddigore the Red, who, according to _Profiles in Darkness,_ used to get his kicks throwing lavish unicorn hunting parties. The girls had been amusing themselves by exploring the house. Sirius had heard them moving about, poking into things, giggling occasionally. Let them, he'd thought, he wasn't their host. It wasn't his responsibility if some Dark object suddenly bit off one of Bellatrix's fingers.

Now, having apparently exhausted all the diversions that twelve Grimmauld Place had to offer, they were occupying the corner of the drawing room furthest from his own. Narcissa was staring at the rain hitting the window, seemingly without a thought in her pretty head. Bellatrix stood behind her, brushing Narcissa's hair with long even strokes.

Or rather, that's what he assumed they were doing, because Sirius was definitely not watching them, not drawn by the sight of Bellatrix's hands moving through the golden hair. He was reading. That Ruddigore was quite a wizard. No one ever actually _killed_ a unicorn, it seemed. It was all about the parties.

Bellatrix had put down the brush and was now plaiting her sister's long hair. One pale hand held a portion of Narcissa's flaxen tresses, while she balanced two locks in the other hand. Her two hands twisted rhythmically; the yellow plait grew. Sirius was unaware he was looking, unaware his book had dropped to his lap, until he felt his eyes again snared by Bellatrix's. He wanted badly to take up his book again, to hide behind it and pretend he hadn't been staring, but he felt himself unable to move.

The older girl held his gaze and smiled slowly. He felt himself flush, aware he'd been caught at something. Why should Bellatrix smile at him that way? So _knowingly,_ as if they held a secret between them. He had a perfect right to look at guests in his own home if he wanted to. What was this feeling in his stomach that insisted on resolving itself as guilt mixed with a twinge of excitement? How dare Bellatrix make him feel this way, when all he was doing was looking at Narcissa? Let them leave the room if they didn't want to be seen. He knew where they could get an Invisibility Cloak.

Narcissa still stared at the rain-streaked window, enjoying her sister's attentions, a peaceful smile playing over her features. She was so different from Bellatrix, so untouched. Sirius felt a brief burning hate for his entire family, himself included, that she couldn't stay that way. That eventually the Blacks would ruin her.

Bellatrix still smiled. Sirius couldn't look away.

 

* * *

 

He passed the dark-haired girl in the hall that night, on the way to his bedroom. She stopped in front of him, and touched his wrist.

Stepping in close, she spoke into his ear. "Little sister needs to be protected," she whispered.

He could still feel her breath on his cheek as he fell asleep.

 

* * *

 

"I'm having my portrait painted," Mrs. Black announced at dinner the following evening.

"That will be nice for you, dear," Mr. Black replied abstractedly.

"Althea Nott recommended the most marvelous man. His portrait of her is really very clever. He's managed to make her look nearly human," Sirius's mother droned on.

As his opinion was unlikely to be required, Sirius was free to struggle with his own thoughts, which were increasingly and disturbingly of long blonde hair. At least tonight he could look without danger of censure from Bellatrix's perceptive eyes. She was seated at his side, with Narcissa across from them both.

He would have felt this to be alarmingly close, were it not for the fact that with Bellatrix in this position he could avoid her gaze. If he only kept staring rigidly forward, her brilliant eyes could not catch him.

But staring straight ahead meant looking at Narcissa. At her hair, her hands, her soft eyes, so different from her sister's, so calm and easy. Looking at Narcissa made thoughts rush through his head. Thoughts he didn't want there; thoughts he couldn't banish, try as he might. Thoughts of how looking wasn't enough.

He could close his eyes, but that would draw comment from his mother. It would be useless, anyway, Narcissa's saffron hair had burned into his vision like the sun; he would see it behind his eyelids.

His mother was still talking, but he could make no sense of it. He heard his name and forced himself to concentrate.

"...be using the drawing room as a background. So find somewhere else to do whatever it is you do," she was saying. "You, too, girls," she added in a nicer tone. "The drawing room will be in the service of art for at least a week."

She paused for an answer, but none came. "Sirius," she demanded, waiting for him to look at her. He didn't dare turn his head and risk meeting Bellatrix's eyes. "I don't want you underfoot. You'll have to find some way to amuse yourself."

Then he felt something, a soft pressure on his thigh under the table, and he knew Bellatrix had placed a hand there. She didn't move her hand, just let it lay there on Sirius's leg, light and motionless as a dead spider.

He didn't dare make a noise, didn't dare budge. If he yanked away, turned and looked at Bellatrix, she would be smiling that knowing smile at him. He refused to see it.

"Sirius Arcturus Black," his mother said, in a voice as cool as ashes, "I expect you to answer when you're spoken to."

"Yes, Mother," he heard himself say. He felt disconnected from most of his body. His entire consciousness was concentrated on a light hand resting on his thigh.

He wanted desperately to yell, to shove Bellatrix away hard, but the soft fingers held him motionless. He could only sit there, frozen, enduring the touch of one sister, cold and dry as moon dust, while he stared at the other. If Narcissa touched him, he knew, it would be warm as the sun.

 

* * *

 

What was Bellatrix playing at, he wondered furiously as he lay in bed, too angry to sleep. Who the fuck did she think she was?

He was Sirius Black, eldest son to Orion Black, heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, who traced their bloodline to before the Middle Ages. He would head the entire family someday, if he so desired. How dare this country cousin take such liberties with him? Did she think he would stand for it because he was only sixteen and she was twenty-four?

He clenched his fists. Why did she think she could look at him like that? Like she knew his secrets. And how could she _touch_ him? What did she mean by it?

It had been the lightest of touches, coming when she knew he was looking at her sister, at the golden hair framing a face made even paler by the candlelight. Bellatrix, with the tyranny of her glittering eyes, had made it impossible for him to look anywhere else. She had known that, and then she'd touched him.

Hours later, he could still feel the ghost of her hand on his thigh. He hadn't wanted it there. It had felt horrible, disgusting. It had felt _wrong_.

A slow thrill rolled through his stomach and spread unbidden to his cock. He felt himself growing hard, and let out a bitter curse at all Black women, and another at himself.

His hard-on demanded attention. Sirius ruthlessly ignored it. He wouldn't touch himself; not when he wasn't sure if it was cornsilk hair that was making him hard, or a sharp knowing smile. Was his cock throbbing at the memory of golden strands, or the vision of an unnaturally white hand moving through them? Which would be worse?

He heard himself groan and realized his hand had moved of its own accord to his aching cock. He looked down at his fist pumping up and down under the sheet and wondered dimly what had become of his self-control. Perhaps he'd never had any.

Perspiration broke out on his forehead and upper lip, and beaded between his shoulder blades. He stroked himself harder, relishing the warmth that was spreading through his body, and the thrill that was radiating from his groin out to his stomach, his arms, his legs.

He refused to think of a face, concentrating instead on yellow hair -- how it would feel softly brushing against his arms, his chest, his nipples. He bit his lower lip hard to keep in a moan, not caring when he tasted blood.

If the blonde hair had a way of changing now and then to black, and if his cock gave an accompanying jump in his hand, well, he could ignore that. He was still in control of his mind, at least. His imagination could transform raven locks to spun-gold tresses. He would not wank to black hair and knowing eyes. He felt himself gasping for breath.

He did not want Bellatrix, in flesh or fantasy. He wanted her gone from his life, and from his thoughts. Much better to think of Narcissa. Narcissa, who was not perfect, but was at least blameless. Narcissa, with hair like the sun, who couldn't help being a Black, and who had burned her way into whatever he had for a soul. Narcissa, who he blazed for, who he wanted like he wanted daylight. Who must never, never know.

He came suddenly, straining for air, muffling his cry in a pillow.

 

* * *

 

The Black house was monstrous. It twisted and turned in unexpected ways; hidden passages traversed bewildering paths connecting unlikely rooms. Staircases took unforeseen turns and often led nowhere. Rooms followed no discernible floor plan, but seemed to have sprouted organically, like toadstools. Sirius had never been able to prove it, but since he was seven he had been sure that the house changed subtly from time-to-time, adding rooms or taking them away, according to its own architectural whims.

Why, then, was he unable to avoid his dark-haired cousin?

He would pass Bellatrix in the halls, on back staircases, in the basement kitchen. Sometimes she would be with Narcissa, sometimes alone.

If Narcissa was there, the younger girl would smile the same way she used to upon passing him in the halls of Hogwarts, and Sirius would feel something tighten in his chest. She seemed sometimes to want to stop and speak to him, but Bellatrix would lay a hand on her shoulder, or on the small of her back, and guide her past.

If Bellatrix was on her own, she would stop very still, forcing Sirius to walk by her. She'd seem barely to notice him, but as he passed, she would always touch him lightly somewhere -- his chest, his arm -- once, the side of his neck.

He'd feel these touches for hours. If he closed his eyes, his skin would remember the sensations, feeling her light dry hand all over him. Each place she'd touched stood out cold as ice, as though she'd left wintry handprints behind. He was sure he'd been marked; he knew Bellatrix would have left signs of herself, even if they weren't visible to the eye.

 

* * *

 

"The tapestry must be clearly readable behind me."

"Sì, Signora."

"And I must be in three-quarter profile."

"Sì, Signora."

"And there will be no Conjuring of that hideous artificial light. I must be bathed in a natural glow."

The little man sputtered. "But, Signora, this room, the windows, they let in so little --"

"And," Sirius's mother continued mercilessly, "I expect a rose undertone to my skin. One hint of olive, and I'll Transfigure you into something small and unpleasant. This portrait is my legacy. It's your job to make it exquisite."

"Ah, but it is so easy," he bowed low with a flourish. "Signora could never look anything less than beautiful."

Mrs. Black favored the little portrait painter with a warm smile. Sirius, watching from the doorway, shuddered.

Professor Ludwigo Magia-Magia was round and red as a tomato, and jumpy as a marionette. He'd been flitting through the drawing room all morning, buzzing here and there -- setting up his easel and selecting paints from large cases on the floor.

Sirius suspected he was no more professor of anything than he himself was, but the title seemed to impress his mother. By mid-morning on the day of his arrival, they were ready to start on the portrait, the Professor having told Mrs. Black that his special technique required no preliminary sketches. Sirius assumed he didn't want to spend any more time at twelve Grimmauld Place than was absolutely necessary.

"KREACHER!"

The elf Apparated with a loud crack directly behind the Professor. The little portrait painter jumped surprisingly high for such a round man, and did -- at least by Sirius's judgment -- a rather impressive mid-air pirouette before landing several feet away.

" _Must_ he do that?" the artist inquired weakly, fanning himself with one hand.

"Kreacher, the Professor and I will be dining in here. There will be no breaks," she added, fixing a stern eye upon the little painter. "Make sure we are not disturbed."

Kreacher, nodded, bowed and Apparated out of the room with an even louder noise than before. Sirius was sure the house-elf did it deliberately. He wished he knew how.

The Professor quivered silently a moment, before gathering himself and attending to his many brushes. Sirius idly wondered what the odds were of the painter surviving the week. He felt a twinge of loneliness. Moony was always good at figuring out that sort of thing. He sighed.

His mother's head snapped up from where she was supervising the painter's color selections. "Sirius! I told you you were not to be in this room. Remove yourself. I don't wish to see you here again." She looked murderous.

He felt a small grin start to play over the corner of his mouth. "Sì, Signora."

He bowed as he slipped out, ignoring his mother's furious face.

 

* * *

 

Sirius wandered restlessly, poking his head into rooms, then leaving quickly when he found them empty. He felt itchy, unsure what he was looking for, or if he was looking for anything at all. Deciding the empty feeling in his stomach was hunger, he headed for the basement kitchen.

Bellatrix and Narcissa sat at the table, a tea service spread before them. And that was _not_ who he'd been looking for, he told himself. They looked up silently at his approach.

Maybe he wasn't hungry after all. He was turning to leave when he heard the older girl's voice.

"I wonder why our cousin has been ignoring us, Cissy."

Bellatrix was playing at petulance; her voice sounded of little-girl coyness. Sirius ignored her. Then a small sad noise made his heart clench. Narcissa's sigh.

"I don't know," she replied to her sister. "I wish he would stay for tea."

"Boys are strange creatures, Cissy. So many are afraid of witches."

Sirius hated himself for swiveling slowly back, for taking a stiff seat at the table. What did he have to prove to Bellatrix? Why did he care?

She rewarded him with one of her sharp smiles. Like silver knives, Sirius thought again. Why couldn't he look away?

They must have Conjured the tea set; Sirius had never seen it before. Glinting silver thorns twined round the midnight blue china of the cups and plates. The porcelain was so thin, it was nearly translucent, and glowed in the light of the kitchen fire. It looked delicate, ethereal, Sirius thought. It looked breakable.

Tiny sandwiches and dainty cakes with pink icing overflowed from tiered trays. Sugared flowers graced elegant tarts. Candied fruits and nuts spilled over from heirloom silver bowls. Neither girl ever ate much, Sirius knew. They wouldn't come close to finishing this fairy feast.

Bellatrix nudged Narcissa and she poured him a cup of tea. Sirius took it without flinching, not sure what he was proving, and grabbed a tiny sandwich. Bellatrix looked pleased.

He took a bite, then grimaced, fighting not to spit it out. It had _looked_ like chicken; he didn't like to think what it might actually be. He forced himself to swallow.

Bellatrix threw him a fond look. "Family should spend time together. Regulus should be here."

"Regulus is lucky," he snorted, taking a swig of tea. That at least was drinkable, and tasted faintly of strawberries.

Bellatrix frowned. "And naughty Andromeda. We haven't seen her in ages."

"Andromeda is married, Bella," Narcissa replied. "I wish we were allowed to meet her little girl," she added wistfully.

"Naughty Andromeda married a nasty, filthy Muggle-lover. Mummy was so angry." Bellatrix laughed. She looked, for a moment, like a joyful young woman, not dangerous at all.

Sirius felt his head growing light, and wondered vaguely if there was something in the tea. He doubted it; it was becoming all too common around the sisters -- this fuzzy out-of-body sensation. He stared at them, deliberately letting his eyes blur.

One was light, one dark. They were painfully lovely, both of them, with a razor-sharp beauty that hurt to look at straight on. How could they be so very alike in appearance, he wondered, yet so vastly different in their hearts?

"It's a shame we won't be seeing Regulus." The blonde girl gave him a little shrug, then smiled.

He felt warmth flood his body in a rush. She was like a tarnished angel, he thought disjointedly, feeling somewhat ridiculous. Damaged, of course, but in spite of everything she could still be saved; every fiber of his being told him that. His heart quickened at the thought. Could he perhaps be the one to save her?

"It's too bad about Regulus," she continued in her clear young voice, with its tones as pure as a child's. "But Sirius is our favorite cousin."

The warmth blazed to sudden burning heat. Sirius shook his head, trying to clear it. He knew he couldn't be the one to save her. If he was wise he'd stay far away.

 

* * *

 

He passed Bellatrix again that night, in the hall that led to both of their rooms. As he'd known he would.

He'd waited until it was very late, until he was falling asleep standing, before he made the weary trek upstairs to his bedroom. He knew she'd be there, no matter how long he lingered, no matter how late it was.

He saw her, standing near the entrance to his room. He'd have to endure whatever little game she had planned before she'd let him go around. She smiled a slow predatory smile, and he half-considered going back downstairs -- finding some abandoned couch to sleep on, or a floor somewhere. Instead he continued forward.

She stepped in close as he reached her, as he'd expected. Trailing a light hand down the side of his face, she whispered in a cruel, baby-voiced impression of her yellow-haired sister, "Sirius is our favorite cousin."

She laughed softly, and took a step away. Her touch made him feel disconnected from his body, as it always did, but he could feel his blood rush, and hear a roaring sound in his ears. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he clamped a hand around her wrist and jerked her back.

Her bright eyes shone, and she smiled knowingly, and that's all he had time to see before he crushed his mouth to hers.

She kissed him back at once, with no hesitation or surprise. Their tongues brushed against each other, rough and hard.

Then somehow he had her up against the wall outside his bedroom, with no clear idea of how he'd gotten there. He put a hand on the doorframe behind her, so he could lean in even closer, kiss her even harder, and rub one hand roughly up and down her side.

A fleeting thought passed through his head -- about how this was wrong, how he didn't want this, how he should stop now -- but it was all jumbled; his clouded brain could make no sense of it. He didn't want to think, anyhow. He'd done far too much thinking lately; he'd be happy to never think again.

He kissed her hungrily and fisted a hand in that mass of black hair. A hard yank exposed her neck, and her answering moan reverberated through his body straight to his cock.

He bit down hard and heard her gasp. Good, he thought vaguely, let _her_ lose control.

Then the door was open and she was pulling him into his bedroom. He followed eagerly, furious at himself, furious at the world, furious at his aching cock.

Why couldn't he stop thinking? He pushed her angrily onto the bed. He was going to finish this, there was no question. He had no use for the part of his brain that kept repeating, _this is wrong, this is wrong,_ in a small insistent voice like a quiet scream.

Bellatrix laughed up at him, and he fell on top of her, kissing her neck, dragging his teeth to her pulse point, tasting her skin. She was pushing his shirt off his shoulders, and that seemed like a good plan, so he sat up quickly and ripped it off before attacking the filmy material of her dress.

There was far too much of it, and his hot fumbling hands couldn't find the fasteners, and Bellatrix was going to laugh at him again, which could not be borne. But she merely stretched an arm behind her neck and made a quick motion with her fingers.

The silky fabric fell away, exposing her white skin. Her breasts were small and perfectly shaped, with dusky rose nipples he ached to feel between his fingers. This is how Narcissa would look, he couldn't help thinking, then felt a new flash of revulsion that only made his cock throb harder. He dived forward to banish the thought, cupping one breast and capturing the nipple in his mouth, while working her dress down her hips with his other hand.

He sucked at her nipple, pleased to feel it harden in his mouth, glad to hear her arch and moan. She wasn't laughing anymore, but shoving his trousers down his long legs. He kicked them violently off, and then his naked body was against hers.

He could feel himself shaking, knew he was out of control, but he was not going to stop. He was going to finish this -- the quicker, the more savage, the better. He found her opening and a fierce shudder racked through him at the feel of her wetness. Barely taking time to position himself, he thrust hard.

And he was inside her, pumping, driving, and she was thrashing against him and making noises that penetrated his skin and raced through his blood. And finally he was no longer thinking -- no longer _could_ think. A buzzing redness swum round his brain, and behind his eyelids, leaving room for nothing else.

He knew he was kneading her breast; he felt himself pressing their damp foreheads together, but his body had left him behind. He had no control of the hips that slammed into the dark-haired witch, or the hot hands that roamed her body, desperate to touch anywhere they could. He was overwhelmed by sensations; the fiery ache that was _almost there,_ and the feel of her cool fingers on his feverish skin.

Much more of this would kill him, and he was _so close,_ and he heard her scream beneath him, felt her shudder. Then he was coming in a rush of heat, and collapsing against her, gasping for air.

He supposed he must have passed out. The next thing he was aware of was the curtain of her dark hair tumbling against his cheek and onto his pillow. She was standing over him, leaning down to whisper in his ear as he lay on his stomach, completely spent, unable to move.

"Our favorite cousin," she murmured, and laughed softly.

 

* * *

 

The noon sun glared ruthlessly onto Sirius's pillow. He flung an arm over his eyes and turned his face to the wall.

He didn't want to go downstairs. He might never go downstairs again. His mother and father were unlikely to notice except at dinner time -- and he could say he'd contracted a rare strain of Dragon Pox, or vanishing sickness, or the plague.

He would just stay in bed for the rest of his life. For excitement he would pull the covers over his head, or roll onto his left side.

He wouldn't face Bellatrix, not when hours later his body was still running hot and cold. When his senses kept reliving the memory of her touches, and the feel of her tongue in his mouth.

He groaned and turned over again. If he could only stop _thinking._ He let out a bitter laugh -- thinking too much wasn't something James or Moony, or Peter would have ever accused him of at Hogwarts. But now the thoughts hurtled through his mind unbidden -- a shirt being pushed down his shoulders, a nipple in his mouth, Bellatrix's taunts in his ear.

He was sick to his stomach, and he was hard again, and he didn't know which would win out -- the urge to retch, the more disturbing urge to wank, or both.

He'd had sex before, of course -- once, last term, with Veronique Vowell, the Ravenclaw Seeker, after a party in the Gryffindor common room. James had smuggled in a bottle of firewhiskey and Sirius and Veronique had gotten a little drunk and snuck off together. It had been rather unsatisfactory and they'd both agreed it wasn't an experiment that needed repeating. Her hair had been short, and a dull brown.

He would forget about this. Stuff it down in an unused corner of his mind and never think about it again. After a while it would be like it never happened. He wouldn't see Bellatrix when he was away at Hogwarts, and then he'd graduate and get as far away from his appalling family as possible. Any invitations he received for the Black Family Reunion would remain unopened.

Whether it was wrong, whether he'd enjoyed it -- these questions were unimportant. It would never happen again, so what did it matter?

 

* * *

 

"The portrait is coming along rather well, I think." Mrs. Black helped herself to the night's first course.

"Glad to hear it, my dear," replied Mr. Black. "Do you agree, Professor?"

"The Signora is a most charming subject." Even seated behind a tureen of steaming turtle soup, the professor somehow managed a neat bow.

She tittered like a Hufflepuff. Disgusting, thought Sirius.

He'd been unable to convince his mother he'd caught Kneazle-scratch fever, or been bitten by a wandering werewolf, so here he was, stuffed into his dress robes, enduring a family dinner he couldn't eat. He felt feverish, and nauseated by the smell.

Bellatrix was seated to his left, a place she'd apparently commandeered permanently. He couldn't look at her, but he felt himself flush hotly as he looked at the blonde girl across the table. He couldn't shake the irrational feeling that he'd somehow injured Narcissa. He cast his eyes rigidly down, concentrating on the turtle soup -- the glutinous broth, the gray-green flesh. He was sure he'd be sick in a minute.

Bellatrix was so close to him. She'd touch him again in a moment, he knew, laying her spider-hand on his thigh. He felt gooseflesh rise on his skin. He knew he looked clammy and pale.

He dreaded her touch, but it would be a terrible relief. At least he wouldn't have to endure the waiting, the horrible anticipation, any longer. A bead of sweat trickled down his back, leaving a thin cold trail. Why didn't she just get it over with? She was going to touch him, he had no doubt. Why did she make him wait?

But she never touched him, not once, the whole meal, though he waited, every muscle tensed to snapping, biting his tongue so he wouldn't scream.

 

* * *

 

"It never happened," he said firmly, happening to meet her later, mostly by accident. He was proud of how steady his voice sounded.

"And," he added, knowing he was being illogical and not caring, "it will never happen again."

She stared at him a moment, silently, and he wondered if she'd go wide-eyed and pretend not to know what he was talking about.

But she merely smiled her knife-edge smile and replied seriously, "Of course, little Gryffindor," before vanishing up the stairs.

He didn't believe her, obviously. He knew she'd again be waiting for him in their hallway when he went up. Let her. What could she do to him? If he needed it, he'd have his wand.

He took a breath, firmed his resolution -- _it can never happen again_ \-- and headed upstairs to his room.

The corridor was empty. He blinked, not quite able to believe his eyes, and headed to his door. He fought the urge to peer over his shoulder, half-expecting her to jump out at him from some shadowed recess.

But he entered his bedroom undisturbed. He lay down on his bed fully clothed and stared at the ceiling.

What he was feeling was relief. It was not, by any measure, disappointment.

 

* * *

 

The next few days passed in a dreamlike haze. Bellatrix was ignoring him, which was good, which was what he wanted, but his traitorous mind kept replaying that night -- how her pale skin had looked against his dark sheets, how she'd screamed as she'd come. His cock would grow hard, and he'd feel a million different things -- shame not always at the forefront.

He was feverish and muddy-headed. The sense of disconnection from his body was coming more and more often. He felt agitated, unable to stay in his room, but unable to do anything more than roam the house restlessly. His mother had screeched and threatened more than once to disown him when he'd found himself wandering absent-mindedly into the off-limits drawing room.

And if Bellatrix was ignoring him, that meant, of course, that Narcissa was too. The girls were always together now. He'd catch glimpses of them -- writing a letter in the morning room; crooning in a sweet harmony and a strange language in the music room; Conjuring perplexing flowers in the conservatory.

Now they had discovered the Blacks' little-used library. He could see them, huddled close over an enormous antique spell book, long hair obscuring their faces as they bent over its pages. The blonde locks glowed brightly even in the wan sun diffused through the window's thick glass; the black was so dark it seemed to absorb light, trapping the illumination in its raven tresses.

Every now and then Bellatrix would point out something on the page and smile in delight. Sirius shuddered from where he slouched in the doorway, not even bothering to pretend he wasn't watching. He knew what kind of books were in the Grimmauld Place collection; he knew the sort of magic that was amusing Bellatrix, provoking her silver-bell laugh. Narcissa just smiled gently, pleased to see her sister happy.

It had been a long time since the book had last been read and the loosened dust from the shelf drifted through the air. It reflected the light, sparkling as it floated through the room, dancing around the sisters. He felt his vision blur, until the room was all glinting molecules, and dark and bright hair.

He screwed his eyes shut tight, trying desperately to clear his head. His skull felt stuffed with cotton. If only he could shake this feeling that he was floating somewhere outside himself, unconnected to the creature in his skin. Why did he feel so separate from his body? _These aren't my legs,_ he thought recklessly. _Not my arms, not my hands. That isn't my heart pounding._

Bellatrix looked up from the spell book, staring straight through the doorway where he stood. She didn't smile, she didn't meet his eyes; she seemed not to even notice he was there. Sirius toyed with the idea that he'd become suddenly invisible. It wouldn't have surprised him, somehow.

She leaned over to whisper something to the other girl. She stood, taking a moment to tuck an errant golden lock behind her sister's ear, then walked towards the door, towards him. Sirius saw Narcissa's blonde head lift up briefly, following the older girl, before dipping down to the book again.

Bellatrix still wasn't looking at him, and gave every impression that she was going to walk right through him. Sirius took a step back into the hall.

The instant she crossed the threshold, he caught her arm and pushed her against the wall, gluing his mouth to hers and fisting his hands in her black hair. He didn't care if his mother, or the house-elves, or the whole Gryffindor common room saw him. He needed to clear his head; he needed to get back into his skin.

She kissed him back eagerly. His head already felt clearer. That was his hand cupping her breast, his tongue battling hers for dominance, his cock rubbing against her hip, seeking the perfect friction.

He stretched out a hand to the wall. Without breaking the kiss, he groped his way down the hall, tugging her along. Stabbing blindly, he at last felt a doorknob beneath his searching hand. He couldn't have said what room it was, and he didn't care. The house was bursting with empty rooms, and if he'd stumbled upon one that was in use by an inhabitant of Grimmauld Place -- well, he still didn't care.

He fumbled with the knob, and propelled her through the door. She had to stumble backwards -- they'd fall in a minute -- but he didn't slow. The room seemed to be empty, but he wouldn't stop devouring her mouth long enough to check.

Staggering further in, he pushed her down -- at last breaking the kiss -- and fucked her on the floor.

 

* * *

 

Bellatrix liked it when he was on top. She liked to let him pretend he was in charge, let him pound into her until he was desperate to come, then twist like an eel until she was straddling him, pinning him down.

She liked it when he held her wrists, pressing them into the pillow with one hand as he fingered her cunt with the other. She liked being on her knees in front of him. She liked the noises he couldn't help making as she sucked his cock. She didn't like it when he came that way, when he couldn't stop himself, which was most of the time. It scarcely mattered; he was always hard again almost instantly.

She liked it when he bit her neck; she liked for him to leave bruises. She liked to talk to him in a baby-voice, and call him "little Gryffindor." She liked that that made him hard.

She liked to creep into his bedroom after the household was asleep. She liked it more when he crept into hers.

She liked it when he'd grab her without warning -- in the kitchen after breakfast, strolling through the dying garden, in the empty hallways. She liked it even better when one of his parents or Narcissa was in earshot just around the corner. He suspected she'd have liked it if someone walked past and saw them with his hand up her skirt, or his tongue in her ear.

She liked it best of all when he would swear this was the last time, when he would mumble hotly that they had to stop, his words barely understandable as he tongued her nipple or bit at her throat.

 

* * *

 

She was pouting, biting her lip and refusing to fuck him until he said the incantation, and really, what did he care?

Sirius sighed and pointed his wand. _"Incarcerous."_

A delighted smile appeared on Bellatrix's face as thin black ropes snaked around her wrists and ankles. The unattached ends tied themselves to the dingy brass posts of her bed, and pulled taut.

She fell back, spread before him, helpless as she could ever be. She squirmed a little, anxious for his touch. Sirius was suddenly, ferociously, hard.

He felt his breath hitch in his chest; his violent arousal pooled in a hot mass somewhere around his stomach and his aching cock. The tiny part of his brain that still functioned felt vaguely surprised at the intensity of his reaction, and the familiar creeping shame only made his cock throb harder. His hand clenched around the nearest bedpost.

Her mass of dark hair fanned the white satin pillow, and she was wandless, and bound, and vulnerable, and she wanted him. For once, he had the power. He could walk out right now. Leave her there, naked and flushed, and _needing._

Except, of course, he couldn't. He had to have her right now, this instant. He only hoped he wouldn't come the moment he touched her.

Bellatrix was making small impatient noises. Let her, Sirius thought. He liked the sound of them. He wanted to hear more. He smiled, affecting a nonchalance he was far from feeling.

She glared up at him. He was suddenly hyper-aware. He could feel the tiniest stages of his body's involuntary reactions -- his pupils dilating, the little hairs on the back of his neck raising. He could feel the blood flowing through his body; could feel it rushing to his cock.

He leaned in to her. His wand was still in his hand, he realized. Her eyes darkened as he touched it to her forehead. He trailed it slowly down her face, between her eyes, along the slant of her nose. She snapped at it as he touched her lips.

He ignored her fierce eyes and continued to trace her skin with his wand. He paused a moment at her throat, pressing in with the tip, leaving a mark, before moving down to her clavicle, her breasts.

He bent very close, watching the up-and-down movement of her chest as her breath sped. He knew she wanted him to take her nipple into his mouth. He wouldn't, not yet. He circled one breast with the wand tip. Gooseflesh rose on her flawless white skin. Pleased, he moved lazily on to the other breast. He traced its perfect shape slowly before dragging the wand to her hard round nipple.

He paused, holding very still. She glared daggers at him; he knew he'd be punished for this later. He didn't care.

 _"Frigidus."_ Bellatrix gasped at the sudden coldness of his wand. He drew small circles with the icy tip around the rosy bud of her nipple, then held it to the center. Her breathing quickened even more. Her moan made him want to plunge into her, and pound quick and hard. Instead he placed his mouth above her breast and lightly blew warm air onto the cooled flesh.

Bellatrix writhed and threw her dark head back with an abandoned moan. He applied the ice-cold wand to her other nipple, then followed with his tongue, licking her cold hardness before sucking it into his warm mouth.

Bellatrix thrashed below him, trying desperately to rub her thighs together, moaning like a hurt animal.

"Don't move," he ordered. She stilled immediately, and fell silent. He felt staggered with power.

He returned his attentions to her breast, licking the crease of flesh on the underside, and sucking hard at her nipple. He let one hand drift down her stomach, her hips, the thatch of her hair, until he found the fleshy nub of her clit. He thumbed circles into the wetness. He could feel the tension in her body; he knew she wanted to writhe and moan, but didn't dare. Her harsh pants were the only outward sign of her arousal.

He rubbed mercilessly, feeling the body beneath him growing ever tighter. She was struggling for air now, and small groans were slipping through her lips. Each time he heard one he pinched a nipple, hard.

The bindings were taut as piano wire, and her muscles were corded. She'd break apart in a moment. He kept stroking, enjoying the slick wetness on his fingers, and the taste of her nipple in his mouth.

He pulled back. Her eyes were screwed shut, and she was biting her lip fiercely. He could see a small trickle of red blood. He drew a slow breath.

"You may come," he said quietly.

She gasped, a great gulp of air like a near-drowner breaking through the ocean's surface. Her body shook violently, and thrashed against the bindings. Her scream was wild, uncontrolled, atavistic. He was inside her before her shudders slowed.

He knew -- even as he pounded into her, even as the burning redness overtook his body -- that the seductive rush of control was illusory. He would never be in command. The power was all hers.

 

* * *

 

"And here she is, my masterpiece."

The little painter said much more, but Sirius could barely understand him, could catch perhaps one word of three. The out of body feeling had a grip on him, and all he wanted to do was fuck Bellatrix through the drawing room sofa.

The little painter's hand was on a red velvet curtain that hid something -- his mother's portrait, Sirius supposed, or maybe a razor-toothed manticore, what did he care? The Professor was getting ready to pull the curtain back.

The sisters sat together on the sofa; Bellatrix held Narcissa's hand. His mother was installed in the high back armchair, which had the air of a throne. His father stood behind it. All watched the Professor attentively, waiting.

Sirius stood to the side. He wouldn't be allowed to miss this, he knew, but he could barely remain upright. His head buzzed and his knees felt on the verge of buckling. If this portrait wasn't unveiled soon, he would fuck the dark-haired witch where she sat. They could all watch.

What was wrong with him? He groaned quietly. His mother glared at him, no doubt putting it down to teenaged petulance.

She was his cousin. He didn't like her, he was more than a little afraid of her, and all he wanted to do was rip her clothing off. Why was this happening to him? How had he become this person -- this monster who could do such unspeakably vile things? Had it always been inside him?

He wanted to resolve right now this very minute to stop -- to never touch his cousin again, to lead a decent life -- but he was done lying to himself. If he was a monster, he would be an _honest_ monster. A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

His mother threw another glare at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but the painter had finished his speech and now yanked the red curtain. It fell to the floor.

All heads swiveled to the revealed painting. His mother stood there in her full-length glory. She wore her favorite black cap and favorite black dress and favorite expression of disapproving smugness. Sirius couldn't stop his shudder.

To him she looked hideous, nearly deformed -- her inner rottenness clearly laid-bare in the dabs of paint. He felt almost sorry for the unsuspecting little portraitist who beamed so proudly. He risked a glance at his mother to see how she was taking it.

And she was smiling too. As was the rest of the family. Could they be pleased by this monstrosity?

It seemed they could. His father shook the Professor's hand warmly. His mother stood close to the painting, and approvingly watched her portrait-self preen. Bellatrix looked blank and uninterested, but Narcissa smiled sweetly up at the picture.

He looked at it again. It was horribly unattractive, at least to him, but it _was_ an accurate representation. The Professor had shown considerable skill in capturing his mother's true self. It wasn't the painting's fault if that true self was irredeemably corrupt. And judging by the reactions of the others, beauty was subjective.

He was past caring. He felt light-headed and hot. All he could think about was a wet mouth on his cock.

He looked back at Bellatrix. She stared blankly forward -- ignoring him, Sirius would have thought, if he had believed she cared enough to snub him. She hand a hand in Narcissa's hair; she twisted a yellow lock idly. He stared -- caught, as he always was, by the glints of gold that raced through the strands.

And if he was finally going to be honest with himself, he might as well admit that fucking Bellatrix hadn't made him want Narcissa any less. He still burned for her with an unrelenting ache. He was lost, he knew. He was well and truly damned.

Bellatrix turned her head toward him, saw him staring at her sister's hair, and smiled. His body went suddenly cold, which didn't stop his cock from becoming painfully hard. He couldn't feel his legs; he'd fall over in a minute.

"What's wrong with our son?" came his mother's voice.

No, not his mother's voice. The _portrait's_ voice.

It peered out at where he stood stupidly frozen and continued, "Has he become an idiot?"

He heard his living mother snort. "Become?"

The two Mrs. Blacks enjoyed an identical laugh.

 

* * *

 

Bellatrix began insisting on casting a Glamour before she'd let him touch her. She'd pass her wand over her head, turning black hair to blonde. She was so like her sister she didn't need Polyjuice; she knew he'd feel like he was fucking Narcissa. She assumed that he'd hate it -- even as he'd want her, in her blonde state, more than ever. She was right.

He'd tie her up, now, nearly every time. She wanted the bonds tighter and tighter, and took to wearing long sleeves to cover the red marks on her wrists. Sometimes he'd add a gag, and let her make all the noise she could.

He'd fuck her outside, often, or in an open hall. Not from any desire to get caught, but because he couldn't wait long enough to get behind a locked door.

She'd excuse herself in the middle of dinner, and wait for him to follow, not caring that he was risking his mother's wrath. She'd want him to fuck her, quick as he could, against the nearest wall. Then she'd make him return to the table with rumpled clothing and swollen lips.

He stopped sleeping, because when he did he'd dream of her -- or of Narcissa, which was worse. At night he'd roam the house until he couldn't stand it any longer and then he'd push open her door.

He wore the same clothes for days at a time. No one noticed, unless you counted his mother's portrait, which sniffed pointedly every time he passed its new place in the entrance hall.

Once he nearly killed Kreacher, when the house-elf tried to weasel out of obeying a direct order. He had his wand out and the curse on his lips before he even realized he was angry. Later, he only regretted he hadn't done it.

He started sneaking his father's firewhiskey -- pouring whole bottles at a time into the water pitcher from his room. He'd Transfigure as close an imitation as he could to refill the bottles, but it was little more than colored water. He knew he'd be caught soon, but couldn't manage to care. If he drank enough firewhiskey before he tried to sleep, the dreams didn't come.

 

* * *

 

Bellatrix wasn't in her room, or the drawing room, or the library. Sirius rambled through the garden, starting to feel itchy, desperate. He senses were alert; he felt jumpy, barely contained, but he couldn't let Bellatrix see. He had to look calm, indifferent, when he finally found her.

She'd be out here somewhere. He knew it.

You had to be careful in the garden. The plants were mostly harmless unless eaten -- Deadly Nightshade, Night-Blooming Jasmine, Monkshood -- but occasionally the Baby Devil's Snare would get rowdy, or lonely, and try to capture a stroller's foot. Luckily most of the man-eating plants were indoors in the conservatory.

He strode on. His hands clenched convulsively in his pockets, wanting to touch pale skin, to bury themselves in dark hair. And there, suddenly, was a figure, sitting alone on the stone bench in front of the Blood Roses.

He was almost upon her before he realized her hair was golden, not black. He stopped short, recoiling involuntarily.

Narcissa looked up at him. A smile of delight crossed her face and his stomach turned over. She made room for him on the bench, and he couldn't not sit, couldn't not stay.

They were still a moment. She didn't seem to have anything to say to him. He had to fight to keep the words from flying from his mouth. Words like _always,_ and _want,_ and _love,_ and _fuck._ She mustn't know he was a monster on the inside.

She must keep her innocence as long as possible. It was a miracle she'd kept herself free of the Blacks' iniquity as long as she had. She didn't think about things like Blood, or Dark Wizards, Sirius knew. She didn't think about much at all, but that was miles better than the grasping cunning of the rest of his family.

Finally she said something -- about the weather, or her cat at home, or Hogwarts. He made a noncommittal noise, and nodded, trying to look agreeable.

She talked on. He didn't try to understand the words; he just listened to the music of her voice. He would graduate in a year. Maybe by then he'd be over this mad infatuation, and he could come for her -- could get her far away from the Blacks and their poison. Maybe in a year he'd be able to trust himself, and he wouldn't want to kiss those red lips, or drown in that yellow hair.

His head felt heavy. He'd grown so used to seeing Bellatrix with Glamoured blonde hair, that he found himself losing track of which sister was sitting beside him. The girl's features seemed to shift suddenly -- first one, then the other. He spoke, when she seemed to need an answer, not knowing what he said, not sure who he was speaking to.

Then she leaned toward him -- to make a point, or to show him the flower she held in her hand. Her long hair brushed against his bare arm, and he no longer had any doubt which sister was with him. Narcissa's hair burned like sunlight, inflamed his body like wildfire.

He gasped and wrenched away. She looked up, alarm in her wide eyes, and it was all he could do not to crush her to him until they both stopped breathing. To take her right there, not caring if she protested, not caring if he hurt her.

Not caring if she screamed.

 

* * *

 

"You have to let me leave. I'll stay with James, or with Andromeda if that's better --"

"We've already discussed this." His mother walked into the drawing room, trying unsuccessfully to free herself of his presence.

"I'll stay in a hotel, I've got to get out of this house." He could hear his desperation, knew he wasn't convincing her, but he couldn't help himself.

"I do not wish to discuss this further."

"But --"

"You will remain here for the rest of the summer. And I'm starting to be of a mind to keep you here during the school term."

"But --" he was staggered. "You can't. I'll be of age then, and --"

His mother's voice was cold. "I can and will do whatever I want."

He took a step back. Her face showed no mercy. He turned and fled the room, hurtling blindly through the hall. The portrait's voice followed him.

"Too right," she called. Then, raising her voice so it could be heard in the drawing room, "Well done, Walburga."

 

* * *

 

"Hit me," she giggled breathlessly.

"What?" he panted, thrusting into her, trying to keep it slow. "No."

"Hit me," she repeated in her baby voice. "Black my eye. Leave a bruise."

"Shut it," he managed to grit out. He wasn't here to talk. He could barely remember his own name when he was inside her. He wouldn't have minded forgetting hers.

"Slap me," she twisted her body, sending him onto his back, and laughed down at him. "Leave scratches with your nails."

She moved above him, and he thrust into her, and this was what he needed, not this inane chatter.

"Strike me. Punch me. Hit me."

"No."

She pouted a moment, stilling her movements. Sirius groaned. Then she leaned in close; he could feel her hard nipples brush his chest. Her Glamour-blonde hair tumbled onto his face.

She spoke softly into his ear, punctuating her words with little moans that Sirius didn't want to find arousing.

"Things are changing, little Gryffindor. Soon you won't recognize our world."

He tried to not listen, to concentrate on thrusting up into her, but her soft voice penetrated his skull and lodged in the back of his brain.

"And little Gryffindors might find themselves on the wrong side."

He was close now; he'd come if she'd let him. If she'd move in just the right way.

"I... Don't... Care..." he panted harshly.

She laughed. She was moving again, in nearly the right way.

"It will be a glorious new world, cousin."

He needed to finish. He thrust as hard as he could. His hips pounded up into the girl, and back into the mattress, making it bounce.

"The Dark Lord will have a special place for you."

 _The Dark Lord,_ he repeated in his mind. So that was it; he'd suspected as much. It hadn't made him not want to fuck her. But he hadn't _known,_ not until now. He wished that mattered. He tried to feel flooded with outrage and horror, but all he wanted to do was grind into the hot wetness of the girl. He was so close.

"You could be a great Dark Wizard. I can see it."

She moaned as he reached up to cup one of her breasts.

"No."

"You're nearly one already."

Now he felt outrage. It poured into him with burning heat. It wasn't true. He wouldn't listen anymore; he shouldn't have listened to this much.

"You have the darkness in you. All you have to do is accept it."

 _No._ But he was done lying to himself, wasn't he? He'd seen the monster inside himself; he didn't need her to point it out.

 _No. No. No._ He thrust into her, again and again, each time with a denial on his lips. He would not give in to the foulness inside of him. Neither Bellatrix, nor anyone else, could make him.

 _Haven't you already?_ The thought whispered through the redness in his skull, insistent as a scream.

She smiled down at him, amused. And there was her silver-bell laugh.

"Hit me."

 _"NO,"_ he shouted, and came in a powerful rush.

 

* * *

 

And then it was if she'd never met him. She looked at him blankly at dinner, and in the hallways. When he tried to touch her, to grab her arm, she moved aside with a puzzled frown.

He tried her door, late at night, as he always did, and found she'd cast a Locking Charm. He hung around corridors, outside doorways, waiting for a chance to get her alone, but she was constantly with Narcissa. It was deliberate, he knew. Before, she'd make sure to pass by him alone, and move slowly.

Finally he saw her on a staircase, without her sister -- on her own. He grabbed her wrist hard, before she had a chance to say anything and pushed her into the wall, his lips at her throat.

He found himself Blasted painfully to the bottom of the stairwell.

What did she want from him? He couldn't stand this much longer. He had to have her soon. He felt light-headed, and he couldn't eat, or sleep. A swirling blackness played at the edge of his vision, growing with every passing hour.

He was floating outside his body nearly all the time now. It was a horribly familiar sensation, Merlin knew, but now he felt he might never reconnect with his skin, might float into the ether and disappear. Would anyone notice, he wondered and heard a high-pitched laugh he realized was his own. Get a grip, he told himself.

He was cold all the time; he couldn't get warm, and when he looked in a mirror, he was clammy and grey. "Oh my," it clucked, sounding faintly shocked. "You used to be such a handsome boy."

He discovered his father's firewhiskey made the swirling blackness go away, at least for a while. He drank it to get to sleep, then to start the morning, then during the day. He'd been drunk in front of his mother, but she hadn't noticed, or perhaps just hadn't cared.

When he'd drunk enough, he would go to her, wherever she was -- sitting in the drawing room, walking in the garden, making a fourth for Wizard Bridge -- and try to hold her hand or touch her shoulder. He was desperate to feel her skin; he could ignore his mother's questioning looks.

Was this a game? She couldn't stop touching him, then go about her business pretending it had never happened. She was not allowed. He was real, not the ghost he saw reflected in her eyes when she deigned to look at him. He would prove it to her.

He would make her fuck him. Even if he had to do it in front of his parents and Narcissa and the whole bloody lot of them. Did she think he was afraid of causing a scene? What did she think he had to lose? Nothing could be worse than this unscratchable _itch,_ this burning craving she'd instilled in him and now refused to satisfy.

 _Accept your darkness,_ she'd said. Was that what this was about? Was that what her fucked-up black little heart required?

He might just do that. She might, perhaps, be sorry.

 

* * *

 

He'd stormed through the whole house searching for her -- ready to settle this for good and all in any way he had to -- and there she was, sitting on his bed.

Looking perfectly relaxed, playing with her Glamoured yellow hair.

An unfathomable fury boiled up in him, flooding his body with a blinding rage. He couldn't breathe; his chest felt ready to explode. The redness swam in his head, and swirled behind his eyes.

Sharp nails were scraping his brain, and before he knew it his fist had clenched in that false-colored hair and yanked her viciously to her feet.

"Is this what you want?" he demanded, and backhanded her hard across her cheek. "Is that what you had in mind?"

She fell to the ground. A chunk of the blonde hair tore from her head and remained in his hand. He dropped it in disgust.

He pulled her to her feet and drew his hand back, holding it ready for another blow. She liked that, he could tell; her breath quickened in excitement.

"Sirius?" she whispered.

He froze. The desperate rage fled all at once, replaced by an icy dread.

Not Glamoured hair. Not Bellatrix.

Narcissa.

How could he not have known? _Had_ he known?

His legs felt unsteady; he was going to be ill. He dropped her, tossing her from him more violently than he intended. She sat abruptly at the foot of his bed.

What was she doing in his room? He felt a towering wave of self-loathing. How could he have done that? What could he say to her now?

The redness was gone; his vision had cleared. He looked down at her, unsure what to do. She was hunched over, looking at the floor. He felt sick.

She slowly raised her head. Her eyes were wide. His hand had left an angry red mark on her cheek.

Then slowly, she smiled.

And he could see it, could pinpoint the instant her innocence left her, could isolate the moment she became a Black.

It seemed to play out before him, in a horrifying slow-motion. She brought her hand to her red cheek, and felt it wonderingly. She smiled slowly up at him. There was a whisper of silver knives in her smile -- bright and sharp. There was nothing of purity.

"Do it again," she said.

He backed to the wall, not wanting to believe this was happening, knowing it was his fault.

She stood, and walked up to him, very close.

"Do it again," she repeated.

"Why are you here?" he asked stupidly, not knowing what else to say.

"Bella sent me. She said you wanted to see me. Didn't you?" she asked, placing a hand lightly on his chest.

"No," he said, feeling a dull horror wash through him.

"Oh," she replied with a newly knowing smile. "It doesn't matter. Do it again."

 

* * *

 

He lay in bed and plotted ways to kill Bellatrix.

Not with a wand, he thought. That would be too quick. He wanted her neck under his hands. He wanted to squeeze and squeeze and watch her eyes bulge and her tongue swell.

Perhaps a knife. He could drag it quickly across her white throat and spill her precious pure blood all over the drawing room floor.

She wanted him to accept his darkness. He would embrace it, if it would allow him to kill the bitch.

This wasn't an adolescent fantasy of murder. He was no longer a schoolboy -- she'd seen to that -- and he _would_ kill her. That was the only way this could end. One of them had to die.

She wanted to be hit. He could punch her until her cheekbones were crushed, until her skull cracked under his fingers. The thought brought a thrill to his stomach.

He was hard, he suddenly realized. He reared up and was violently ill on the carpet.

 

* * *

 

There wasn't anything he wanted to take. He would never be returning, he knew, and he didn't want to carry anything from the house with him. Let it all stay here and rot. He'd have his wand, that was enough.

He padded down the staircase to the darkened entrance hall. His mother's portrait was sleeping, thank Merlin, making harsh snoring sounds and drooling a little.

The portrait's original was asleep, too, upstairs with the rest of the quiet household. He'd never see any of them again, he knew. This would be a clean break. He‘d be disowned the moment it was discovered he was gone. He was surprised at how little he felt.

Treading quietly past the sleeping portraits, he was almost to the door when he heard a soft voice behind him.

"Naughty cousin. Would you leave without saying good-bye?"

And he could even face _her,_ when he knew it was for the last time. To his surprise, he found he didn't mind at all. He was suffused with a strange peace.

He turned. "Good-bye, Bellatrix."

She stood at the top of the staircase, watching him with her bright eyes. They could no longer catch him. He was beyond them now.

"We'll meet again," she said, descending the stairs.

"No."

"You should have joined us," she said, watching him thoughtfully. "It's not too late. You have a great darkness inside of you."

"Yes," he said. "I know. That's a curse I'll have to live with."

"Too bad." She touched his hair. "We could have had such fun."

He removed her hand gently. "Good-bye, Bellatrix." And then, because he was feeling generous, because his life was beginning at last, he leaned in and kissed her quickly on the cheek.

It was the first time he had ever seen her look surprised. After a moment, she smiled. "Good-bye, little Gryffindor."

He felt her eyes on him until the heavy door swung closed and he was on Grimmauld Place.

He'd go to the Potters', he thought, as he sauntered down the street. James had always said he could move in with his family any time he wanted. He breathed the cool night air, letting it fill his lungs. The Potters would be glad to have him, and he'd be back at Hogwarts soon, free for the first time.

There was a fight coming soon. He felt strangely calm, now that he'd chosen his side, and unexpectedly powerful. For the first time he was ready for the struggle, anxious for it, even.

They would win, he knew. There was no doubt. And then the world would be wide open. There were almost _too_ many possibilities. He wasn't used to freedom, he realized, smiling ruefully. Well, that would change.

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from _She Walks in Beauty_ by Lord Byron.


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